In Every One, A Red Balloon
by R.C. McLachlan
Summary: "Are you having a crisis? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like a crisis and those aren't allowed. They're Prohibited. Verboten. Actually, just get out." After the events of the first Avengers film, Loki shows up with a balloon. Tony has a few questions. (Tony/Loki)


Tony has certain expectations when he enters his space. Most scientists do. They expect to see their safe havens in the exact condition in which they were left—simulations still running or spitting out results, not a pen or welding torch out of place, and free of any and all contaminants. Which is probably why most scientists are a bunch of weak-ass pansies who go from possible Nobel contenders to crying in a bathtub whenever something gets knocked accidentally to the floor, or when Tony visits SHIELD's labs and switches the labels on all of their slides. He's unpredictable, the way science is unpredictable, and it's that fundamental understanding which makes him such a success—that, and he's a fucking genius and has no self-preservation instincts whatsoever.

Point is, he has expectations when he enters his space, and while perfect order may not be one of them, the Norse god of chaos isn't one of them either.

Or whatever the hell he is. Thor hasn't exactly cleared that whole thing up.

Loki is standing in the center of the penthouse in full gold-and-green glory, with the exception of his stupid bug hat, lips pinched in a way that reminds him of the 200-year old lady who mans the newspaper kiosk on the corner of W 61st and Broadway—the one with the permanently-etched pout of disappointment on her lips, like she can't believe humanity's still fucking up this badly in the year 2012.

"Let me guess: you're here to kill me and destroy the city," Tony sing-songs, because hey, humanity's still fucking up this badly in 2012 and he might as well lead the pack. "Thanks for the head's up, JARVIS."

 _Apologies, sir, but since the Avengers have moved into the tower and are frequently in your private spaces, my latest directive is to alert you if something is broken or removed from any of the labs or the penthouse floor._

"Fucking Clint," Tony grumbles in agreement.

"Bored, are we, Stark?" Loki inquires, all softness, sex, and teeth. Pity he's evil; Tony'd hit that in a New York minute. "Shall I wait for you to get your armor?"

His adrenaline levels spike at the promise of a good fight and he opens his mouth to say, "Give me two seconds—you're gonna love this, the latest mark's got mini A-bombs," but the words become lost somewhere in his throat as he catches sight of what Loki's got in his hand.

"Is Nena coming with 98 more of those, or… ?"

Loki's gaze travels up the length of the string he's clutching to the red, heart-shaped balloon bobbing cheerfully at the end. "I was going to destroy this festering sore of a city."

Tony groans. "We _just_ finished cleaning up your last mess—"

"I could very well do it myself, you know. I have no actual need for an army of—"

"Rejected extras from _The Mummy_?"

"— _Chitauri_ ," Loki continues loudly, but his brows beetle as the reference sails just over his head. "There is power enough in my body that I could raze it to the ground thrice over. It will be _easy_. By the time your little compatriots put on their ridiculous costumes, this city will be nothing but a smoldering litter pile of broken bodies and dreams."

"So, basically the same, only on fire. Got it."

A moment passes. Then two.

"… Is the razing going to happen anytime soon?"

"Eventually."

Tony drums his fingers against his thigh. He really should probably call someone. Like Jane. Jane's a good egg. She gets shit done. She could probably call Thor and let him know that his batshit insane family is missing a member, so could he please make with the light show and get his brother the fuck out of Tony's tower before he breaks something, like New York?

But there's no fight in the line of Loki's shoulders. Even his douchetastic gold pieces look less shiny than usual. Mostly, he just looks confused.

"Is this a crisis?" Tony asks. "Are you having a crisis? This is a crisis-free zone."

Loki jerks his hand. The balloon cheerfully bounces in response. "I am not having a crisis."

"You sure? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like a crisis, which aren't allowed. Prohibited. _Verboten_. Actually, just get out."

"From where _I_ am standing, you make a laughably easy and very obnoxious target," Loki says sweetly, dragging his hand back and forth, fixated as the balloon moves with it. "Though it is simple in design, the child who had this seemed to derive a great deal of joy from it."

Oh god. "Did you _kill a kid_?"

"Of course not." Loki has the gall to look affronted. "It was a present."

The responsible thing to do would be to have JARVIS scan the airwaves for any mention of an attack on any parks, schools, or rec programs, because _hello_ , god of lies, but he holds off. Tony's never been the responsible one, but he prides himself on being incredibly intuitive. Somewhat intuitive. Like, 31% intuitive. This doesn't feel like a lie.

"Why the hell would anyone think you deserve a balloon?" Tony asks, half-serious, and goes to pour himself a drink. DUM-E immediately rolls over, a smoothie clutched in its claw, and trills when he takes it. "Christ, what is this? Are you trying to poison me? Is this how the robot uprising starts, with you giving me… I don't even know what this is. You're a disgrace. At this point I'd probably have to _pay_ a middle school to take you. JARVIS, do a search for middle schools in need of a new lunch lady."

 _I was under the impression that children do not like food they cannot identify_ , JARVIS says.

"What are you talking about, kids love guessing games." He strokes a hand down DUM-E's neck, its joints, and then points at Loki. "Go give it to Beezlebub over there."

DUM-E doesn't move.

Tony shrugs. "Yeah, fair enough."

Loki stalks forward slowly, staring DUM-E down with all the intensity of a lioness that has a gazelle in its sights, idly bobbing that stupid balloon. DUM-E shudders and squeaks beneath the scrutiny, backing up until it bumps into the bar cabinet; it turns its claw up and trills at Tony, as if asking for permission to roll the hell away.

Tony throws an ice cube at Loki. "Cut the shit, Cruella. Bullying the AI is my job."

There's something desperate and dangerous about Loki when he turns his attention from DUM-E—who high-tails it outta there—to Tony, a promise lurking there, a shadow with which Tony is well-acquainted; he found his in a cave that smelled like fire and new beginnings, soft-spoken science and a longing for home. His shadow took the shape of a man he once met at a function years ago, a man who later died in his name, and has been following him around ever since. He can only imagine what ghosts Loki's footsteps—If Tony were to guess, it's probably someone of the lightning-wielding persuasion.

After a moment, Loki's expression shutters into one of vague amusement, an odd light chasing the shadow away, and Tony doesn't call him on it because Tony Stark is many things but a hypocrite isn't one of them. Not anymore.

He shrugs and pours DUM-E's sludge down the drain. "So, got yourself a valentine, huh?"

Loki purses his lips. "The child said something to that effect when it gave me this, yes. Pray tell, what oath have I sworn?"

"To a kid? Do we need Chris Hansen to monitor this conversation? Why don't you take a seat over there." Tony points to a random section of the room with the hand that's not making a whiskey neat.

"You're not amusing."

"Said the god of lies," Tony says, cracking a grin. If he thought he'd get away with it without being turned into something horrible, like a mythical beast or Fury's eye patch, he'd take a picture of Loki's constipated expression and make it the background on his phone _forever_. "Seriously, though. What's the move, sprinkle spangle? Are we duking it out?"

Loki looks up at his balloon with an expression that rides the edge of forlorn. "It would break."

"Balloons do that. It's a whole thing."

"It was a _gift_ ," Loki says again, pointed, and jangles his hand. The balloon dances merrily in response, thumping dully as it's jerked back by the string. Tony thinks he used to do that as a kid, pull hard on the string of a balloon to hear that sound. It was limitation dressed up in something shiny, and somehow he's managed to avoid it all these years without losing that shine. "Do you know how long it has been since I was freely given a present?"

The hand holding his glass relinquishes his forefinger, and he points it at Loki, because _incorrect_. "I know for a fact Barton gave you a special arrow during our reenactment of _Gangs of New York_."

"It blew up in my face."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't given to you with love," Tony sings, and takes a sip. Now that's the stuff. "It had your name written all over it. And I mean that literally. There was definitely a Sharpie in Barton's fanny pack."

Loki's mouth twists with displeasure. "I am not counting that."

"I offered you a drink that one time."

"Not freely given. You also planned to threaten me."

Tony snorts. "I _did_ threaten you, and it was free of charge."

"Your metal suit knocked me down," Loki grouses, but he walks over to the bar, dragging his balloon behind him like he's got nothing better to do. Which, considering the way this is going, he probably doesn't.

"You shouldn't have been standing there," Tony counters. He pulls out another glass tumbler and reaches for the decanter; it's top shelf whiskey, and the fucking Krampus here probably won't appreciate it. Who even knows what passes for good alcohol in Asgard. Ambrosia's not a real thing—they definitely made that up.

He fills the glass three-quarters of the way and then pushes it toward Loki, who takes it with a suspicious lilt to his top lip.

"On the house," Tony says. "Consider it a Valentine's Day special. I won't even throw a metal suit at you."

"How generous," Loki sneers. Instead savoring it, Loki drains his whiskey like it's apple juice. Heathen. "And who was this Valentine that he has a day named in his honor?"

"I don't know," Tony says.

"Don't you?"

He vaguely remembers something about a guy with an eye patch marrying people in secret, but the more he thinks about it, the more thinks he made the eye patch thing up, and now he can't stop imagining Fury in a frock, making the sign of the cross and growling, "May God bless this motherfucking union."

Jesus wept. He's never going to unsee that. Team meetings are going to be so awkward from here on out.

"Look, it doesn't matter what the guy did. No one remembers him. It's a bullshit commercial holiday—"

JARVIS chimes in with _Saint Valentine was a third-century Roman saint who—_

"— _Bullshit commercial holiday_ that's way too full of pink teddy bears for me to take it seriously," Tony finishes loudly. Although when they were still together, Pepper got him a box of dirty conversation hearts, which was hilarious. And hot. Especially when they acted each one out.

Loki holds out his empty glass, shaking it pointedly when Tony doesn't take it fast enough, and he watches intently as he's given more whiskey than he deserves. "It is a fine drink… for the mortal realm, at least. It cannot match the taste of ambrosia, however."

"That's not real."

"I assure you it is," Loki says, smiling sweetly.

"God of _lies_ ," Tony reminds him. He pours himself two fingers and closes his eyes to savor it, which is a terrible idea—who in their right mind closes their eyes in the presence of the psychotic alien that threw them out a window?—but damn, it's good whiskey.

Slamming down the glass, he lifts his gaze and says, "So, yay/nay on fighting?"

Loki shrugs and holds out his own glass for more.

"Do it yourself," Tony grumbles and slides the decanter over to him. Loki drinks straight from it. "Philistine."

It wins him a grin, perfect teeth glossed over with a sheen of amber, and Loki slowly licks away the whiskey that clings to them. Tony clears his throat, shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back, and looks out the windows because there is a fascinating city out there and his pants are suddenly very tight.

"I must admit, I was surprised by your initial offer of hospitality that day." The dull thud of the balloon draws Tony's attention back. Loki jars the floating heart again, smiling as it bobs, as if helpless to do anything else. "A war raged just outside your door, and yet there you were, plying me with drink and conversation. Anyone else would have attempted to murder me where I stood."

"Eh," Tony says, his hand coming up to wave it off. "I've never been that guy. It's much easier to solve a problem by getting to its core."

Loki tilts his head, thoughtful. "And you thought by pretending at camaraderie I would… lower my guard and confess to the torments and horrors I have suffered?"

Tony shrugs. "Worth a shot."

The bar was one of the first things he built into this room, and as such it has seen many things: the conceptualization of the ideas that have revolutionized technology, arguments with Pepper, arguments with Rhodey, arguments with… pretty much everyone, including the bots, and God-only-knows how many sexual encounters with all and sundry. This is probably the first time anyone's slammed his face into it and jabbed the point of a knife into his back. Probably. The bar has also seen him black-out drunk an awful lot; he can only imagine what happened during some of those nights.

 _Sir! I am alerting SHIELD—_

"Uh, yeah. Belay that, JARVIS."

 _But sir—_

"That's an order," Tony grits out. "I was planning on venting my spleen today anyway."

"You shallow, presumptuous, stupid little worm," Loki hisses.

"Hey, hey, _hey!_ I am _not_ stupid." The knife point digs in pointedly, and he's pretty sure it's broken the skin. His empty whiskey glass rolls by and drops off the edge. Thank Christ he bought the unbreakable ones; he doesn't need to reenact that scene from _Die Hard_.

Loki's grip doesn't waver. If anything, Tony can practically hear his hand tighten around the hilt. "With all your science and intelligence, did you honestly think you could slither your way into my good graces with pretenses of friendship and compassion?"

"Are they pretenses if you sort of mean them?"

"Did you?" Loki purrs, twisting the knife a little, which, _ow_.

Tony weighs the pros and cons of lying, then decides to just go for broke. "Not really. Ow. _Ow!_ In my defense, you were blowing up my city. But I was also rocking a pretty impressive rage boner for you, so—"

The pressure and pain ease in an instant as Loki takes his not inconsiderable weight off. Completely unprepared, Tony slips off the bar and lands hard on his ass. He's known for having many things, but cat-like reflexes isn't one of them.

"Fuck," he grouses, then painstakingly gets to his feet. From across the bar, Loki stares at him, wearing the expression of the lady on W 61st and Broadway, and Tony blinks. "Where's your balloon?"

"You were… You had a—"

"Rage boner," Tony says again. In for a penny. "You know. Adrenaline pumping, tense situation, your cheekbones, my almost certain death—"

"My—"

Tony's eyes catch on a slow, rocking ball of red making its way across the room with single-minded purpose. "Oh, there it is."

He watches it drift and feels a faint sort of jealousy. It looks so easy, so damn effortless; what he wouldn't give to be a balloon and float his way through the clusterfuck of his life. Except he'd be one of those cool, metallic ones, painted red and gold with the AC/DC logo on it. And tied with one of those curly ribbons.

With a sigh, he reaches for the decanter and takes a drink straight from it, because there's no way in hell he's going to go hunting for his dropped glass. Although he could probably just… grab another one.

Tony slides the decanter over to the other side of the bar.

Loki, hulking and awkward and still holding his goddamn knife like a very confused Hannibal Lecter, stares at the slosh of the liquid with more focus than it actually deserves. Well, that's not quite true. It's a '62 Dalmore—it deserves _all_ the focus.

"I know I said that personal crises are verboten, but I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't let you have at least one. Although my meltdowns usually involve less stabbing and more blowing shit up," Tony muses, leaning against the bar. "Feel better?"

Loki looks away and mumbles, "A bit."

"Want to shish-kebab me?"

"... Perhaps… not today."

"Wunder-friggin'-bar." Tony slams his hand down and then gestures to the decanter. "Then drink up, Tigger, and you can be on your merry way."

Subtlety must be lost on Norse whatever-the-hells, because four hours later Loki's still there.

And while Tony has certain expectations when it comes to his spaces, he really didn't expect his floor to be recast as the battlefield for an army of pink wintergreen lozenges facing off against the imposing forces of his good crystal, but the mark of a good scientist is to go with the flow.

"B3—" Blearily, Tony reaches for the $10,000 gravy boat he got from rich idiot at a thing and ends up smacking it and sending it skittering under the couch. A hiccup punches its way out of his chest, and ow, fuck, that kind of hurts. His whole body jerks with it and he reaches up to make sure Loki's bug hat doesn't fall off his head. Reassuringly, the balloon tied to one of the horns dances merrily when his fingers brush against the ribbon.

"Miss," Loki mumbles, cheek pressed to the floor. Long fingers spider out and snatch a lozenge, popping it into his mouth. "You are a terrible captain, Stark. I just sank your destroyer."

"You've gotta call out a thingie first, you cheater. Stop eating my damn fleet." Casting about, Tony tries to find the decanter, but it's mysteriously disappeared. Or it's just empty and he can't see it through the double vision. "JARVIS, what did you do with the pizza?"

 _Sir, for the last time, you did not order a pizza._

"Why not?"

 _You asked me two hours ago if I preferred pepperoni or meat lover's—the answer is neither, sir. You never asked me to order a pizza, so I have not ordered a pizza._

"Huh? Why would you order a pizza, JARVIS? You can't eat."

 _… Sir, please drink some water._

"Ghost voice," Loki slurs, lazily waving an arm at the ceiling. "I demand you remove this man from my sight. He has impugned my honor by claiming I have eaten his game pieces."

Tony squints. "Your tongue's all pink."

A bright grin curls Loki's mouth, which has taken on a suspiciously chalky tinge, and Loki rolls onto his back. "I'm sure I don't know of what you speak."

"You're a shitty liar."

"Nonsense. I am the god of lies and it is a position for which I am well-suited." As if to punctuate the point, Loki arches his back and stretches luxuriously, all straining muscles and grunts. He ditched all the S&M gear a few hours back; now he's clad in nothing but thin black material that gives flirty peeks at the skin stretched over his ribs in between the threads. It's like a Victorian tease, but worse—no one in 1895 ever died from the flash of a wrist. Probably. "I am an exceptional liar."

"Uh-huh." Tony cranes his neck a little to see Loki's tunic or whatever ride up and reveal the pale skin of his belly.

"I require more of that drink," Loki says and flaps at hand at him. "The second one, the one in the bejeweled bottle. It tastes like banked flame wrapped in sound and ice."

"Mm," Tony agrees, and begins mapping out on Loki's skin the starting point for his tongue. X will mark the spot somewhere.

Loki falls back to the floor with a satisfied sigh, gone soft and boneless beneath the orange glow of the sun dipping low. Above them, the penthouse lights lower to match it. "You are ogling me, Stark."

"You know, you're way too art-arti-articul—you're talking like you didn't down half my Delmore and all of my Henri IV Dogn—no, that's not it—my _Dudognon_ Heritage," Tony whines. "Are you even _drunk_?"

"I am not. There is no liquor in this realm that could adle my mind." Loki gives a thoughtful pause, then his face—or what Tony can see of his profile—does something complicated and a little sad. "However, I _am_ warm, which is something I have not been in a long time."

There are words that need to be said, _pretenses of friendship and compassion that could be used to_ _slither his way into Loki's good graces_ , but they never materialize on Tony's tongue. He's never been the guy with perfect platitudes at the ready and he's definitely not the guy anyone goes to for comfort, for solace, for a good pep talk when the chips are down. He's the guy people go to when they're spoiling for a fight, when they want someone to hurt. He's the guy who hands out bruises in lieu of pearls of wisdom.

And if Tony were a betting boy, he'd wager that Loki's that guy, too. There's no softness to spare between them. They're the deities of destruction.

So Tony keeps his damn trap shut and crawls through the warzone of lozenges and crystal to straddle Loki's surprisingly skinny hips.

Amused, Loki tips his chin up and his hands slide slowly up Tony's thighs. "Please tell me you're going to appeal to my humanity."

"Actually, I'm planning to kiss you," Tony hums.

Thin lips part around perfect teeth in a grin. "Had you attempted this instead of threaten me that day, your city might have found a much kinder ending in the invasion."

"I'm pretty sure you'd've still thrown me out the window," Tony mutters, dipping his head down to run the tip of his nose over a too-smooth jaw.

Loki hums, baring his throat a little. A shiver licks at the pads of Tony's fingers where they've burrowed underneath Loki's black tunic-thing. "I was under considerable duress when I did that. My army was late. You understand. And you came out of it just fine—a vengeful figure, resplendent in blood and gold."

Tony's always been a sucker for a suck-up, especially when they're even a little sincere. Or at least when they sound sincere. God of lies, after all. Still, he lifts a hand and thumbs at a sharp cheek, and it isn't hard to imagine the bone sticking out like a knife if Tony's cock were stuffed in Loki's wicked mouth.

"I am at your mercy," Loki purrs beneath him, wide-eyed and a little mean. He takes his hands from Tony's sides and holds them over his own head, a pretty picture of vulnerability and submission. "Whatever will you do with me?"

There are a billion ways he could answer that, each one snarkier and dirtier than the last, but he can't get them out for some reason. Maybe it's because they won't be heard over the deafening roar of blood in his ears, or maybe it's because this feels like the first time he stepped into the suit. It feels big. It's a precipice, and he's in control of the fall.

So he says nothing. His fingers are a little clumsy from the 1.7 million-dollar cognac, but he manages to slide the ribbon off the hat horn without stabbing himself or letting the balloon float away, which, hey—go him. It takes no effort at all to lean forward, capture Loki's right hand in his, and tie the ribbon around his bony-ass wrist.

Well, it takes a stupid amount of effort to tie it. His fingers are like sausages and the ribbon's being a contrary asshole.

Once he manages to knot the damn thing, he sits back, satisfied.

"Happy Valentine's Day. Sorry it's not a metal suit to the face."

Loki laughs, a full-bodied thing, and Tony watches his face as the words sink in. The wicked grin on Loki's face loses its edge and then collapses as quickly as a winter sunset. Something flashes in his gaze as he takes in the ribbon knotted clumsily around his wrist, and if Tony had to put a name to it, it might be fear.

"Oh, what, a random kid gives you a balloon and you practically cream yourself. _I_ do it and you look like I'm about to kick your dog."

The maybe-fear on Loki's face fades into something familiar: annoyance. "I do not have a dog."

"If you did."

"If I did, it would be a wolf born of _my_ world and would eat you alive."

"Not before I kicked it. And _definitely_ not before I kicked its ass with a dog in an Iron Man suit. Iron Dog."

Loki huffs a laugh, his sharp features soft with mirth, and he peers up the length of the ribbon to watch the balloon sway for a moment. "You warned me of your Hulk, yet you said nothing of the danger you, yourself, presented."

"Danger, huh." Tony thinks back to Loki's look of shock when he flew back up to this floor and blasted Loki right on his ass, and then shrugs. "Well, why spoil the surprise?"

"I am surprised," Loki agrees, slipping a hand up to curve around the back of Tony's neck, and, grinning, Tony leans down.

 _Sir._

"Not now, J."

 _But sir—_

"JARVIS, I will install Windows Explorer in your—" It's too bad that Loki takes that moment to slot their mouths together, because the threat is without a doubt one of his best.

Loki's tongue— _silvertongue_ , an article from Nighttime Wikipedia Link-Hopping's Past whispers—licks at the seam of his lips and delves inside, and the pink lozenges could learn a thing or two from this kind of invasion, because Loki's looking to obliterate every damn one of Tony's defenses. Beneath him, Loki arches, and Tony moans into Loki's mouth at the feel of the thigh riding hard between his legs, unbearable and hot, right where he wants it.

Pulling back, Tony presses wet, biting kisses to that proud jawline, and hopes he'll leave some sort of mark. Something to show he was there.

"Tell me," Loki gasps, baring his throat. "What is the next day of celebration on this world?"

Tony tongues at a bulging, throbbing vein, and then sinks his teeth into it, relishing the punched-out whine that spills from Loki's swollen mouth. "Don't know. Don't care."

 _St. Patrick's Day, March 17th. It marks the death of Saint Patrick and is an official feast day and is usually celebrated by accessorizing with green. Sir, I really must—_

"My thanks, ghost," Loki whispers, and sinks his long, devilish fingers in Tony's hair, nails pressing into his scalp. It probably should be terrifying to let a known terrorist so close to his brain, but fuck, Tony's never been so turned on. "How fortuitous."

"What is?" Tony drags his mouth back up to Loki's, grinning at the pull of teeth on his lower lip.

A hum of hot breath shivers over his tongue, and Loki murmurs, "That the next time we meet, you will be dressed in my colors. Fortify your defenses, Iron Man, for I mean to ruin you upon my return."

And then Tony's forehead is smacking off the floor as the elevator doors slide open and Steve walks in.

Groaning, Tony pushes himself up and casts about, but there's nothing to be found except scattered crystal glassware, a shit-ton of pink lozenges, a few empty bottles, and a hard-on that could smash rocks.

That fucking tease.

Steve clears his throat, drawing Tony's attention, but Steve's focus is somewhere above Tony's head. What the fuck is he looking at? Oh god, it's probably some horrific monster or tumor or something, except when Tony reaches up with no little amount of dread, all his fingers find is warm metal.

Steve gives him a look from the Disappointed Newspaper Kiosk Lady Collection. "Tony, for _crying out loud_ —"

"It's antennae chic, Rogers," Tony says loftily and wobbles to his feet, weighed down unexpectedly by the dumb-ass helm he's still wearing. "All the rage in Europe. Hey, JARVIS?"

 _Sir?_

"Get me on the books with Cad & The Dandy. I need a new suit." He kicks lozenges and champagne flutes out of the way and pats Steve on the shoulder as he passes.

 _Anything in particular?_

"Mm. Something in green."


End file.
